A History of Cartographers
by picascribit
Summary: Before there were the Marauders, there were four little boys from very different families, and eight parents, many of whom only survive between the lines of canon. Eight one-shots, eight points of view, 500-700 words apiece. (1958-1966) TW for mentions of domestic violence, internalised misogyny, transphobia, character death. Prequel to A Conspiracy of Cartographers.
1. Almira Pettigrew - March 1958

It didn't matter how hard Almira Perkins tried; she had not been able to save any of them. After their parents' early deaths, she had done her best to raise her younger siblings. She had married, too young, to a man with a good job, in order to provide them with a stable home life. Instead, he had beaten her and taken away her wand. He had sneered at her brother Constantine, calling him by his birth name, Constance, and telling him he could never be a "real" boy. He had led their baby sister, Delilah, over to the side of Grindelwald, and ultimately, to her death. He had been tried, found guilty of crimes against Muggles and Muggleborn wizards, and had died in Azkaban prison.

Almira was a failure as a wife, unable to keep her husband happy, or on the path of righteousness. She was a failure as a mother, allowing her young siblings to be ill-treated. She was a failure as a witch. She should have been able to stop it.

Shame and self-loathing ate at her. She was sure the Ministry was still watching them, waiting for some sign that they had been of Grindelwald's camp, too. She trusted no one, not even herself - no one but Constantine, and Constantine would not stay with her. He had his own life, his own friends. He could not spend his days keeping company with his sister, who had become a virtual shut-in.

"How can you trust them, after everything we've been through?" she demanded. "They're not your family."

"They're my friends," he told her for the hundredth time. "I would trust them with my life."

He seemed determined to convince her. The next time he invited her to supper at his flat, she discovered they were not dining alone.

"Mira, this is my friend Pedanius Pettigrew," he introduced the short, pear-shaped young man with the cheerful face and wide blue eyes. "Dany, my sister, Almira Perkins."

Almira muttered her pleasantries, shooting her smiling brother a narrow look.

Constantine had chosen well, however. Pettigrew was charming and soft-spoken, witty and kind-hearted. He was there again, the next time she dined with her brother, and the time after that. When she invited Constantine to tea at her own flat, he asked if Pettigrew might join them.

"The two of you seem to go everywhere together these days," she commented approvingly in the kitchen after tea. "It must be getting quite serious."

Constantine laughed. "Oh, no! Dany and I aren't together. It's _you_ he fancies, Sis."

"Me?" she gasped. "Why, he must be fifteen years younger than me if he's a day!"

"It doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you," said a voice from the doorway.

Almira blushed, looking the man over in a new light. Her first marriage had given her nothing but grief, and she had not thought to wed again. But this man ... She had found herself growing fond of him in spite of herself over the past weeks. Constantine trusted him, and he treated them both with kindness and respect. She could not imagine him raising his voice against another person, let alone his hand.

She smiled at him. The next time they met for tea, Constantine was not invited.


	2. Eleanor Potter - July 1959

It was a good life, Ellie Potter often told herself. She had a husband she loved dearly. They had a beautiful home in the village where he had grown up, surrounded by a lively garden to which Ellie devoted much of her time. Her husband's job, working as an Auror for the Ministry of Magic, was more dangerous than she would have liked, but these days there were not nearly as many Dark witches and wizards to contend with as there had been fifteen years before, when Ellie and Joe had been newlyweds. It was a peaceful life, and she was content.

The only thing missing was a child.

The early years of their marriage had been filled with a monthly round of hope followed by disappointment, but now, almost eighteen years later, she had resigned herself to childlessness. She was past forty now, and her husband nearly fifty. They never even talked about it anymore.

It was a hot summer. At first, Ellie thought it was only the heat getting to her, making her feel tired and run-down. The bloating in her belly and tenderness of her breasts, she wrote off to her monthlies, coming on a week or two later than usual.

But that didn't seem quite right. After four decades living in her body, she knew it well. This was something new. _The menopause,_ she realised. She made an appointment with a healer to find out what other changes she could expect, and if she shed a few tears over the passing of her limited fertility, well, there was no shame in that.

When the healer showed her the test results, she shook her head. "That can't be right. You must have mixed mine up with someone else's."

"There's no mistake, Mrs Potter," said the healer. "Shall I schedule you a follow-up for next month to see how you're coming along?"

Feeling dazed, and not knowing what else to do, she nodded.

Ellie barely noticed the trip home. She spent the afternoon sitting on the sofa, worrying a handkerchief between her hands and thinking, _It can't be,_ and, _Why now?_

When green flames crackled into life in the fireplace and her husband spun out onto the hearth rug, Ellie leapt to her feet, but she did not go to him.

"Ellie?" he said, taking in the look on her face and the rumpled handkerchief clenched between her fists.

"Joe -" she said helplessly. "Joe, I -"

That keen-eyed Auror whom she loved so well looked her over from head to foot, puzzlement creasing his brow. She had seen that look on his face so many times before as he sorted through clues and mysteries. _Figure it out,_ she begged him silently. _I won't believe it until you say it._

Joe Potter's hazel eyes widened. His jaw dropped and his brows shot up into his disordered hairline. In two strides, he was with her, enveloping her in a bear hug.

"I'm going to be a dad!" he said, delighted.


	3. Sylvia Lupin - December 1960

The Ministry of Magic Christmas Gala was the biggest party of the season. Everyone who was anyone was invited, as well as every member of the Ministry staff. Sylvia Lupin felt more than a little overwhelmed, but her husband Marcellus, a junior members of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, had insisted that it was time she had a real taste of the magical world.

Sylvia was a Muggle - the word still sounded strange to her - and until she and Marcellus had become engaged three years before, she had assumed that magic was a thing of imagination and fairy tales. But now, as her young husband escorted her into the elaborately-decorated hall, it was all around her, singing from the rafters and twinkling from the branches of a dozen fir trees.

"I'm just going to grab us some drinks," Marcellus said before abandoning her in a sea of strangers.

Some of the strangers were very strange indeed, with their unusual clothing and wands. One woman even appeared to have a stuffed buzzard perched atop her hat. Nervously shifting the bundle in her arms, Sylvia looked around desperately for anyone remotely normal looking. Her eyes lit on a pretty young woman with sleek, dark hair, who also held a baby. Common ground.

"How old is yours?" she asked, the age-old conversation opener of mothers meeting for the first time.

The young woman laughed prettily. "He's six months, but he's not mine. I'm just the nanny." She turned her own bundle so that Sylvia could see a cap of dark curls and a face red from fussing. "Normally, I wouldn't even be here, but you know how these high-society types are about having their heirs seen."

"Remus is nine months," Sylvia said proudly, presenting her son. "Our first."

Unlike the other boy, Remus was a happy baby. He cooed and drooled and reached his chubby hands towards the strangers.

The black-haired baby stopped fussing and regarded Remus and his mother with large, grey eyes. The nanny sighed in relief.

"That's the first time he's stopped squirming all day!" she said, smiling, as Remus's fat little hand clutched the sleeve of her charge's onesie.

"Making friends?" asked Marcellus, returning with the drinks and a smile. "Wonderful! We've been hoping to start making play dates for Remus."

"_Petronella!_" cried a shocked voice. Several heads turned to see the tall, sour-faced woman striding toward them. "What have I told you about exposing him riffraff? Do you want to be dismissed?"

The young nanny hung her head, stepping away from the Lupins. "No, Mrs Black," she murmured.

"Come along," the woman said tartly. "I want the Minister for Magic to see him."

She turned and strode away, the nanny trailing meekly in her wake. The wide grey eyes of the infant she carried stared back at them over her shoulder until they disappeared into the crowd.

Remus began to fuss.


	4. Walburga Black - November 1961

Walburga Black gave the midwife a suspicious look, but swallowed the potion. The woman claimed to be a pure-blood, though Walburga doubted it. It had been hard enough to find a midwife who did not claim up front to be a half-blood, or even Muggleborn - as if such people knew the first thing about Wizarding medicine.

She closed her eyes as the potion began to take effect on her exhausted body. The aches in her belly, between her legs, and in her swollen breasts eased, and she sighed with relief. By tomorrow, her body would be back to normal. Tomorrow, there would be another potion - one that would permanently close down the operations of her womb. After that, she would no longer be subject to the more distasteful and undignified aspects of womanhood.

Walburga had done her duty, providing "an heir and a spare", as the expression went, for the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Her husband had kept to her bed for the agonisingly long time it had taken for her to conceive seven times, and birth two healthy male infants, though Orion Black had taken no joy in the task. Walburga hadn't minded the act of making heirs - the husband her parents had selected for her was a handsome man who treated her gently - but she knew Orion found little pleasure in the beds of women. Still, so long as he was discreet about his perversions, she could ignore them.

"Are you well, Mrs Black?" the midwife asked.

Walburga opened her eyes. "Tolerable. Let me see him. And then you may send the house-elf to summon Mr Black."

The girl sitting silently in the corner of the master bedroom uncurled from the armchair. Her eyes were downcast as she handed the bundle in her arms to Walburga. Walburga looked the girl over disdainfully. The disgraced daughter of a lesser house, she had barely managed to sit her OWLs before some half-blood had fathered a child on her. Her parents had not allowed her to keep it, of course. The girl would do well enough for a wet-nurse, Walburga supposed. She would find a more suitable nanny once the boy was weaned.

As her gaze moved to the red face of her newborn son, a smile bloomed on Walburga's lips. Exhausted from the effort of being born, the baby slept. A shock of black hair stood up on the crown of his small head, and she fancied he had the look of her.

There was a soft tap on the door, and her husband entered, carrying seventeen-month-old Sirius. The midwife and wet-nurse slipped silently out into the hallway to give the family some privacy.

"Mu-ther," said the toddler, holding out his arms to her.

"Come see him," she said. "Come see your brother."

Orion deposited Sirius on the bed, and he crawled over, face screwed up in the frown he often wore when he was trying very hard to understand something. He reached out tentatively to touch the baby's tiny fingers, then looked up at his mother.

"See-wee-us bwuvver?" he asked, black-fringed grey eyes round. His father's eyes.

"His name is Regulus," said Orion. "Can you say that, son?"

Sirius looked at the baby again and patted its head. "Regs," he said. "Bwuvver."

A fierce glow of pride welled up in Walburga's chest as she gazed at her sons. They were perfect and beautiful - everything the heirs of an ancient pure-blood house should be. One day, they would be great men and leaders among wizards, a credit to their name. And until then, she would do everything in her power to give them the life and upbringing to which they were entitled by right of blood.


	5. Pedanius Pettigrew - May 1963

Green thumbs ran in Pedanius Pettigrew's family. Not literally green, you understand; there was no fairy blood in his line. He just loved plants more than most things. Not, however, more than his wife, and certainly not more than his son. Three-year-old Peter was his pride and joy. The boy's boldness and eagerness to learn were a constant source of delight to his father.

"Come look at this, Pete," he said, when he saw wide blue eyes peeping at him around the greenhouse door frame.

The little boy hurried over, and his father swept him up into his lap.

"This one is called screechsnap," he explained. "You can touch it, Pete. It won't hurt you."

Peter stuck his small hands in amongst the greenery and wiggled them, giggling as the fronds twined around his fingers, making plaintive squeaking sounds. "It tickles, Papa!"

Pedanius grinned. "Why don't you fetch the seedlings in from the window box, and help me water them?"

Always eager to help Papa with his work, Peter hopped down and scampered to the window, which his father opened with a flick of his wand. He was just reaching for a seedling when a cry of dismay came from the doorway.

"_No_, Petey! Get away from there!" gasped his mother, snatching the little boy up and clasped him to her bosom. "What were you thinking, Dany? He might have fallen!"

Pedanius glanced at the soft grass, barely three feet below the windowsill, and sighed. He loved Amira dearly, but she worried about everything, especially when it came to their son. She treated Peter as if he were made of glass, telling him that everything was too dangerous or too difficult for him.

The little boy peered at him over his mother's shoulder, lip trembling.

"He was perfectly all right, Mira," he said soothingly. "I was right here, watching him."

Almira pursed her lips. "Even so, I don't like him coming in here. Some of these plants aren't safe."

"I'm teaching him which ones to be careful of," he promised. "Anything that might be dangerous, I keep well out of his reach."

"You can't expect him to understand things like that at his age," objected his wife.

"That's foolishness, Mira," Pedanius said. "Pete's a clever lad. He can manage all sorts of things, if you only show him how. Discouraging him sets a bad example. I don't want him thinking he's less capable than he is."

His wife looked away. She did not like confrontation. "I just came in to tell you, a new plant's arrived."

A smile of surprised delight lit Pedanius's face. "I wasn't expecting anything."

He hurried through the doorway into the main house, Almira trailing after him, still carrying Peter. Kneeling in the entryway, he gently unwrapped the strips of cloth that bound the plant's stems, protecting them during transport. The vines uncurled, stretching lazily.

"What kind is it, Papa?" asked Peter.

Pedanius frowned. "It looks like Devil's Snare, but the leaves are darker. I've never seen this strain before."

"Devil's Snare?" said Almira sharply. "That sounds dangerous."

"You just have to know how to handle it," Pedanius assured her, sitting back on his heels. "Besides, this one is too young to hurt a kneazle kit. I wonder who sent -?"

A whiplike vine unfurled from the plant and wrapped itself around his throat, pulling tight.

_Relax,_ he told himself. If he relaxed, it would let go. But it didn't. The vine only became tighter, cutting off his air. _Fire._ Where was his wand? In the greenhouse.

_Fire,_ he mouthed at his shrieking wife and son, yanking at the vine that bound him. It was tough and would not break. Black spots appeared before his eyes and blood pounded in his ears. Almira and Peter were still screaming, but the sound seemed to come from a long way off. They looked so scared.

_Don't be afraid,_ he tried to tell them. _I don't want you to be afraid..._


	6. Joseph Potter - August 1964

Neither the early start of the day, nor the light morning mist could put a damper on the Potter family's spirits. By the time they found their seats, the sun was beginning to peek through the clouds, promising excellent weather for the match.

"It's not the top box," said Joe Potter, "but they're decent seats."

"They're very good," his wife agreed. "Here, Jamie, you've got a smudge on your nose."

"Thanks for the ticket," said Ambrose Brown. "It was good of you to invite me, Sir."

"Nonsense, lad," Joe waved away his thanks. "Consider it my congratulations on your qualification. You're an Auror now. And it's 'Joe', not 'Sir'. We're partners, aren't we?"

"Yes, Sir - Joe." The young man grinned. "My little cousin Gertie was so jealous when she heard I was coming to the World Cup. She's wild about Quidditch."

"Will it start soon, Daddy?" asked four-year-old James, peering over the railing at the pitch far below for any sign of activity.

"In a few minutes, son," said Joe. "Has your mother explained the rules yet?"

James nodded vigorously. "Mama plays Quidditch," he told Ambrose proudly.

"Mama _played_ Quidditch," Ellie Potter corrected him with a smile. "I was Seeker for Gryffindor at school," she explained to the young Auror.

"Daddy, do you play Quidditch?" James asked.

Joe laughed. "Not me, son. I prefer to keep my feet on the ground."

"Welcome to the 1964 Quidditch World Cup!" an amplified voice rang out over the stadium. "England is proud to host finalists Morocco and Lithuania in this year's competition. And now, without further ado ..."

James squealed and clapped as the players zoomed onto the pitch, leaning halfway over the railing. Joe smiled indulgently, keeping a firm grip on the back of his son's robes. The little boy had no understanding of competitive sports yet, but he watched with round-eyed delight as the players looped and raced through the air on their broomsticks, shrieking and cheering whenever either team scored a goal.

Periodically, his wife leapt to her feet, screaming her lungs out for Morocco, while Brown gave a shout every time one of Lithuania's Chasers put the Quaffle through a hoop.

Joe enjoyed Quidditch, too, but the only team whose chances he cared about was the Falmouth Falcons. Today, he was happy just to share in his family's joy, and the pleasure of seeing a match well played by some of the finest athletes in the Wizarding world. As he looked from his small son, to his rosy-cheeked wife, to the partner he had trained for the last three years, and who had become like another son to him, Joe Potter felt truly blessed.

The match was spectacular. In the end, Morocco took the Cup in the breathless capture of the Snitch from under the nose of Lithuania's Seeker, scraping them a bare ten point win that brought the screaming crowds to their feet.

"I wanna be a Quidditch player!" declared James, dancing wildly around his parents. "Can I havva broom?"

Joe laughed. "Changed your mind about being an Auror, have you?" He did not mind. Grindelwald's uprising was almost twenty years past, and the Auror Office had little to do these days, beyond investigating a recent uptick in Britain's werewolf population.

"I'll be a Quidditch Auror!" shouted James.

"You can be whatever you want, son," Joe told him. "With any luck, by the time you're grown, we won't even need Aurors anymore, and everyone will just play Quidditch all the time."


	7. Orion Black - February 1965

"Stand up straight," muttered Orion Black. "Say 'good day, sir' or 'ma'am' to anyone who greets you, but no more. Understand? This is a wake, not a _soirée_."

"Yes, Father." The two small boys walked a little taller, self-conscious in their black dress robes.

Orion noted with a frown that Regulus held Sirius's hand.

"A man of the House of Black needs no one to hold his hand. Now, what do you say when you see your Grandfather Arcturus?"

Sirius dropped his brother's hand and parroted, "I am sorry for your loss, Grandfather."

"What did Grandfather lose?" Regulus asked.

"His sister," Orion reminded him. "Your Great-Aunt Lycoris."

"Oh," said Regulus. "Did he look for her?"

"She's _dead_, Regs," Sirius told him disdainfully. "Like that doxy you found in the parlour."

"Guard your tongue, Sirius," his father said sharply. "This is no place for such unbecoming chatter."

Sirius made no apology, but said nothing more as they entered the hall, joining the subdued hubbub within. Though Orion frequently had cause to discipline his heir, he was secretly pleased by Sirius's independence. At nearly five, he was already shaping up to be a handsome, charming lad. Orion was confident they would have no trouble attracting a suitable bride for him. Regulus, on the other hand, had his mother's looks. He was bidable and easily cowed in a way that Orion found troubling, but he was only three. Perhaps he would grow out of it.

The wake was a small affair. Lycoris Black had been a private woman, never married. Many people had found her brusque manner off-putting. Even so, more friends than family had turned out to mourn her.

Orion nodded to his sister, Lucretia, who stood with her husband, Ignatius Prewett, and her three step-children. The eldest was a girl with red hair and freckles. Too old to make a match for Sirius, he decided.

"Orion," said a pleasant voice, "and my young nephews!"

"Uncle!" cried Sirius as Alphard Black crouched to receive the boys' embraces.

"Alphard," Orion greeted his wife's brother. "I hadn't thought to see you here. I had no idea you and Aunt Lycoris were close."

Alphard smiled. "Closer than some. Is my sister here?"

"She's indisposed," Orion lied. Walburga had strong opinions about Lycoris and the company she kept, refusing to mix with "those kinds of people" even for a wake. Her words had stung, and no doubt she had meant them to. Orion felt that, so long as a person kept their personal life private, what they did behind closed doors mattered very little.

"Well, then, it's good I'm here representing our branch," said Alphard.

"Yes, quite."

A diminutive blond man caught Orion's eye, distracting him. Constantine Perkins. He gave a slight nod, which Orion reluctantly returned. _Later,_ it said. He could only be glad Walburga was not there. Her sharp eyes missed nothing.

He cleared his throat. "Where have my sons got to?"

The boys had found the buffet table. Regulus had biscuit crumbs all down his dress robes, and Sirius was stuffing his mouth with sausage rolls. Orion glowered, but Alphard forestalled him.

"Let's leave some for the other guests, lads." He plucked up a napkin and began dabbing at them.

"Sorry, Uncle." Sirius hung his head. Regulus glanced fearfully at his father.

Orion frowned. "That was unseemly."

Unlike Alphard, Orion had no gift nor patience for managing children. He only hoped they would understand one another better when they became men. If he lived long enough to see them grow into their promise. The healers at St. Mungo's had told Orion there was nothing they could do to fix his heart. He might have a year or ten or twenty. But perhaps that did not matter. He had already accomplished the great work of his life: his sons would be great men - a credit to their blood - and his grandsons after them. The future of his family was secure.


	8. Marcellus Lupin - April 1966

"He's asleep," whispered Marcellus Lupin, quietly closing his son's bedroom door.

His wife made no reply. She stood staring at a Christmas picture of the four of them, smiling, happy. She had not spoken since they brought Remus home from his night at the Ministry, bandaged and wrapped in a blanket. Not since he had told her the news about his job.

"Syl?" He went to touch her arm. She flinched away. Marcellus let his hands fall to his sides, as useless as the rest of him.

"I never asked for any of it to be real." Her voice was quiet. Toneless. "Wizards. Magic. Werewolves. I just wanted a normal life. To marry someone I loved. To have healthy children. To watch them grow. That was magic enough for me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You're a _wizard_, Marc," she spat the accusation. "You should have been able to protect us. You couldn't save your own son -"

"I _did_ save him. If I hadn't cast the Patronus charm, Remus would be dead."

"Well, he's not dead. He's _this_," she waved a hand at the Ministry pamphlets lying on the coffee table. "Can you fix him, Marc? Can magic make our son better?"

"No."

"You should have told me. If I'd known we were in danger, I would have -" Her voice broke in a helpless sob.

"There's nothing you could have done, Syl," he said gently.

"I could have taken them away. Somewhere he couldn't find them. France, maybe. Or America."

"I did tell you Greyback was dangerous," said Marcellus softly. "That he threatened me." Sylvia had not taken the threats seriously, though, and Marcellus had not pressed the point. She only half-believed in the magical world.

His wife remained silent, contemptuous.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she snapped. "I'm furious. My son is a werewolf. The way those quacks at that hospital and the fools at your Ministry treated him - they hate him! He's _six_, Marc. He's only a little boy. He doesn't understand what's happening to him. _I_ don't understand it."

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Marcellus could barely hold back his own. He wanted to take her in his arms. To console her. To take a what little comfort might be had.

"We'll manage, Syl. We'll find a way to make it work."

"How? You couldn't save Remus, and now you don't even have a job! How will we manage?"

"I'll get another job." He wasn't sure how. His only decent OWLs had been in Care of Magical Creatures and Charms, and now he was barred from working at the Ministry. A "conflict of interests", they had called it.

"What if he comes back?" she demanded. "Greyback? What if it's Natalie next time?"

"He won't." Fenrir Greyback had done the damage he had intended; the magical world, with its prejudice against werewolves, would see to the rest.

Disbelief twisted her mouth. "I want to take them away. Somewhere safe."

"Where?"

She hesitated. "Maybe it's better if you don't know."

Another crack rent his already-shattered heart. "You're leaving me?"

Sylvia hugged herself. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"You can't -"

The look she gave him was so sharp he winced.

Marcellus closed his eyes. He was so very tired. "I mean - I don't blame you for wanting to go. And if you took Natalie - but, Syl, you can't take Remus with you. You won't be able to manage his condition. Not alone. What if he harms you? Or Nat?"

Again, she hesitated.

"Please, Syl," he begged, unable to hold back the tears any longer. "He needs both of us now. I can't do this without you."

She bit her lip. "I have to get Natalie from the neighbours."

When she was gone, Marcellus collapsed onto the sofa, head in his hands, shaking with exhaustion and reaction. Sylvia might leave him, but he knew she would never leave Remus. Perhaps someday she might even forgive him for what had happened, though he would never forgive himself.


End file.
